


To See Us Once Beautiful and Brave

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Heroes: Volume 5, Implied Incest, M/M, Show Went There First
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I appreciate you... being patient with me. Keeping me sane."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	To See Us Once Beautiful and Brave

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Однажды увидеть, как мы храбры и прекрасны](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121719) by [Vongue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vongue/pseuds/Vongue)



> Set within episode 4x18, _The Wall_.

When Peter sleeps, he dreams of all the people Sylar has killed. He dreams of slipping and falling down in warm blood, of his hands red and wet. He dreams of Charlie and Isaac and Elle and Claire, a guy bludgeoned to death at the side of a road. People that he's met and people that he never did, whose names he shouldn't know and whose deaths he shouldn't feel responsible for, but somehow does. He wonders, then, what Sylar dreams of. If he dreams of Simone, or Caitlin, or Adam Monroe. If he dreams of feeling himself explode, the brightness of an entire sun inside of him. He wonders if he dreams of Nathan dying, over and over and over again, mostly by Peter's own hand.

Sylar tells him, on the days when Peter is too desperate for company, anyone's company, "You look tired. Bad dreams?"

Peter blinks slowly at him, and pictures himself launching at Sylar's throat, slamming his head down onto the floor and banging and banging until the blood flows, rich and red, and there's nothing left of Sylar but pulverized flesh and bone. Pictures himself with a knife, slowly peeling off one layer of skin after another, while Sylar screams and writhes beneath him. He's not entirely sure, at this point, whose thoughts these are, but Sylar blanches, and then says, "Perhaps I should leave you alone for now. There's a book I'm trying to finish."

"Perhaps you should," Peter says, and he tries, and fails, at a smile.

-

"You called me Nathan again," Sylar says.

"Did I," Peter replies, mostly unconcerned.

"Look, Peter." Sylar puts his hand on Peter's shoulder, and when Peter stares at it he removes it slowly. "I know about your - special relationship with your brother. I just want you to know that I don't judge you, or him."

He reaches out his hand once more, and Peter punches him in the face.

-

Some days Peter can't remember any kind of life before this. Before deserted streets and ticking clocks that tell the time but are meaningless because they don't tell you what day it is, what year. He used to mark the days off on a wall with chalk, like a prisoner, but he stopped when he realized he would run out of space eventually. Some days he remembers Emma, and Nathan, and Ma and any kind of a life he might have led as nothing more than a movie that he once watched, him standing distant and removed from it all.

Some days, all he knows is Sylar. Sylar and the way his hands move when he speaks, and the way his face furrows in absolute concentration when he's repairing a watch, and the way he reads the same book over and over again, curled up on a loveseat, all gangly limbs and long fingers gracefully turning each page. The way he continually, irritatingly, hovers around Peter like a particularly pesky fly. He comes up to Peter once, when Peter's sitting on yet another rooftop, except it is always the same rooftop, no matter where they are.

"I have a present for you," he says, and drops something into Peter's lap. "It's a watch," he adds, when Peter seems disinclined to open it. "Took me a while to find it, this particular model of Grand Complications Chronographs is quite rare. I can't believe you managed to drop yours in a cab. Could you not even latch it properly?"

Peter lifts the watch out of its box, feels its weight, heavy silver and familiar in his hands. "I didn't," he says. "I only -" It was just such an obviously expensive watch, and Nathan expected him to wear it everywhere, so he'd just kept it in his apartment safe and lied when Nathan asked. He shoves the watch back with clumsy fingers and slams the lid shut, tosses it back to Sylar. "Fuck you," he spits, and Sylar looks briefly betrayed, and hurt. "My life, our life, isn't a game. Stay the fuck out of Nathan's memories."

He leaves Sylar standing there on the rooftop and doesn't speak to him for two months.

-

Some nights, he goes to Sylar's bedroom and crawls into his bed, presses his body against Sylar's. He'll jerk him off then, whisper into his ear, "Tell me how much Nathan loved me."

"You either want me to access his memories or you don't, Peter. I wish you would stop giving me mixed signals about this."

"Shut the fuck up." He runs his hand viciously up Sylar's cock and Sylar jerks into it, his exhalation of breath tinged with desperation and need. "Tell me about Nathan."

"He loved intensely, okay. Fiercely, overwhelmingly." His voice is harsh and strained, and he curls his hand around Peter's, grips tight. "It terrified him. I have so many memories of him being utterly paralyzed with fear of losing you, and equally afraid of what that meant, that he couldn't live without you. Peter, please."

He shudders, and Peter increases the pace, but not enough, he knows, for Sylar to find release. "The first time he fucked you - I remember your face. You were so beautiful, he couldn't. Fuck. _Fuck_." Peter squeezes hard, and Sylar comes, spilling into Peter's hand as he watches distantly, as Sylar gasps, "I love you, Peter. I love you, I love you," and it's the wrong voice and the wrong face but it's enough, barely.

-

He wanders around the city often, searching for a place where the wall structure might be weaker. For hours, and sometimes days, until he knows just about every inch of the city. Once, he comes back to the apartment and tells Sylar, "Five hours. That's how long it takes to go around the perimeter of the wall."

"Interesting," Sylar says. "That's exactly how long it took for me to walk in any direction and return back to the exact same position from which I'd started. Well, five hours, ten minutes and twenty-five seconds, to be precise."

"Yeah," Peter says, and reaches into his backpack. He throws the snowglobe at Sylar, who catches it but then stares as if it's going to sprout legs and teeth and devour him. "Found this in a building just around the corner. Must have missed it somehow, all this time. Strange, the whole place was filled entirely with snowglobes." He keeps his tone mild and watches Sylar carefully as he puts it down on the nearest table and pushes it away, his gaze fixed elsewhere. "Oh thank you, Peter," he says, voice light. "So nice of you to return with gifts."

"That's enough, Peter," Sylar says. "My mother collected these. Did you want the intimate details of our relationship or is it enough if I tell you that I killed her -"

"You killed your mother?"

"It was an accident."

"Funny, how accidents just seem to follow you around."

"If your intention is to torture me -"

"My intention," Peter snaps, "Is to get us the fuck out of here. Excuse me for not knowing that you murdered your _own_ family as well."

"You killed your father. Perhaps on this matter that makes us even."

"Nope, still you."

Sylar's smile is cold, almost malicious. "You'd already pulled the trigger, Peter."

Peter has no response to that. Instead he picks the snowglobe up and shakes it, watches New York get buried under a blizzard of white.

-

He's banging on the wall with his bare fists, over and over again, until his hands are red with dust and blood, and then his skin starts falling off his flesh in great, wet stripes, and still he can't stop pounding.

Behind him Sylar calls out, "Peter, stop. You have to stop this madness," but when Peter turns around it's not Sylar, it's Nathan, face burnt and disfigured like it was when Peter killed him, that first time so very long ago. "Please stop," Nathan says, and his lips are a wet, gaping hole, and when he comes closer Peter can smell him, burnt flesh and the hint of rot underneath it all.

He falls to his knees then, and sobs, but the hands that reach for him are only Sylar's, and he presses his lips to Peter's forehead and he says soothingly, "It's okay, Pete. I'm here. It's okay," and Peter clings to him with fingers gripped tight enough to turn bone white, and he can't let go.

-

In many ways Sylar is the loneliest person that Peter knows, even before he got trapped in a world with no-one but himself to keep him company. It's like an after-school special: The Serial Killer Chronicles. Now twice as boring and self-involved. He cooks a mean pasta though, and when Peter pays attention to him he relaxes, smiles and cracks jokes while puttering around the apartment. Peter eats the food and drinks the wine and laughs at the appropriate places, tries to lull himself into a sense of normalcy. Just two guys, hanging out. "So it's your birthday today," Sylar says, and he brings out a chocolate cake that Peter had no idea he was baking.

"It is?"

"Really, Peter. I fail to understand why you can't keep track of time." He puts the cake in front of Peter, three big candles and five little ones, colorful and brightly lit up.

"Because it's your brain and I'm not the guy that can tell if a watch is two seconds too fast?"

"Right. Anyway, happy birthday. Don't forget to make a wish before you blow out the candles."

"What's the point," Peter says. "We'll still be here next year." He makes the same wish anyway, and Sylar beams at him as if there is no place else he'd rather be.

"I remember," Sylar says, after he's cut the cake and handed a slice to Peter. "When your mother told me that we were brothers."

"Yeah." Peter swipes at the icing on the cake with his finger and puts it to his mouth. It's just about perfect, more bitter than sweet, exactly the way he likes it. For once, he doesn't say: I already have a brother, and you're not him.

-

Peter's on his back, legs splayed open and fingers gripped around the sheets. Sylar's fingers are digging into the sensitive flesh on the inside of his thighs, and his mouth is hot and wet around Peter's dick. Things to note: Sylar sucks cock exactly like Nathan did. Peter doesn't mind so much; if he squeezes his eyes shut or stares resolutely at the ceiling he can pretend it is Nathan, and not the man that killed him and stole his memories.

The first few times, Sylar tried to speak, but Peter put his fingers to Sylar's lips and said, "Shh, don't. Just be quiet, okay?" Sylar's eyes darkened, but he kept his mouth mostly shut afterwards, unless Peter demanded otherwise. Peter's not certain, exactly, what Sylar's getting out of this, except for an orgasm that he can probably achieve with his own hand and some baby oil, but he can't quite bring himself to care very much.

He shudders as the pleasure builds, tight and heavy, and when he knows he's about to come he reaches down and buries his fingers in Sylar's hair, holds him there until he's done. Afterwards, Sylar crawls up his belly and kisses him, and Peter feels drugged and dizzy and so he allows his mouth to fall open, lets Sylar slide his tongue in as far as he can, and his own come tastes funny, faintly of ozone, and he thinks _Elle_, and that's it, that's enough to break the spell. He shoves at Sylar with the flat of his palms, and Sylar jerks away, more out of surprise than anything else. "Peter, did I do something wrong?"

"No," Peter says, and he rolls away, huddles tightly into himself until Sylar sighs, and Peter feels the mattress dip as he gets off the bed. He doesn't turn around again until the door clicks quietly shut, and then he gets up and stumbles his way into the bathroom, spends ten minutes brushing his teeth.

-

Sylar shows up with a chessboard one day. "What, your subconscious couldn't dream up videogames," Peter says, but at some point the boredom had become so unending they'd do just about anything to pass the time. Including chess, which isn't necessarily a game Peter would choose to play on any given day, but when your any given day generally involves a sledgehammer and a wall that just won't give, you make concessions. "Where'd you learn to play," Peter asks once, after he lost his queen for the second time in a row.

"Oh, here and there," Sylar says, and his hand pauses, briefly, over a piece.

"Nathan taught me how. Funny, sometimes you play exactly like -"

"It's not what you think, Peter." But Sylar's not very good at lying, not here.

"You son of a bitch," Peter says, and he wonders why he's surprised. He shoves the board angrily at Sylar, and Sylar jumps. "How many times do I have to keep telling you to stop doing that."

"Many, many times. Except for when we fuck, apparently -"

"Shut up," Peter says. Ignoring the flush that automatically rises to his face.

But Sylar's eyes snap up, and he says, "It's not as if your brother was so perfect, Peter," and suddenly he's cold, and cruel, mask of civility ripped off to reveal the man Peter knows still exists, deep down. "I have his memories. All the things that he did to you. Half the time he thought of you as nothing more than a difficult child, an overly-sensitive burden that he couldn't get rid of." Peter's on him before he can even think about it. The chess pieces scatter to the ground, and there's nothing but fist against bone and he hasn't felt so good in ages, not since. Not since the last time he pounded Sylar's face.

He stops, eventually, exhausted and sobbing, collapses on the floor next to Sylar. Sylar coughs, a gargled, strangled sound, and his hand claws weakly at Peter's. Peter has no energy to pull away. Instead he says, flatly, "Lie about my brother again -"

Sylar doesn't say anything, but Peter can feel the smile cross his jagged, broken face.

"The wounds should heal," Peter says afterwards, patting a damp cloth over Sylar's cheekbone and grimacing when it comes away red with blood.

"I told you, I have no powers here."

"And I keep telling you, none of this is real. This isn't really your body. We're stuck in Parkman's basement."

"Well hey, since you've got it all figured out, why don't you just click your heels together and wish me better. It might assuage your guilt at least."

Peter throws the cloth into the washing bowl, already stained a deep shade of pink. "I don't have any guilt. That's your shtick, not mine."

"How's your hand?"

"Better than your face." He tries flexing his fingers, then winces when the pain shoots up his arm, every nerve aflame. "Remind me to get knuckle dusters next time," he mutters, and Sylar snickers.

-

"I sometimes feel as if I'm your abused wife."

"I sometimes feel that you're a mass murderer who should speak less."

"Fair enough."

-

There are days when he doesn't return to the apartment, days when he falls asleep at the base of the wall, pressed against the red brick for warmth. The wall feels like any other wall, but when Peter puts his palm on it he imagines the outside world, waiting. A world where Emma needs rescuing and his mother is grieving and his brother is still dead.

A world where Sylar won't pad up in the middle of the night and throw a blanket over him, sit cross legged with a flask of hot tea, waiting patiently until Peter wakes up. Brief, fleeting moments, when he wakes up and drags himself into a sitting position as Sylar pours him a hot, steaming mug, and smiles gently, when it's not all about hate and anger and desperation clawing at his skin, when it's just a moment and nothing but. "What do you see when you look at me," Sylar asks softly.

"I see the man that murdered my brother," Peter says, but nights like these, even he knows he's lying.

"Brian Davis," Sylar tells him then. "That was the name of the first man I killed. He had telekinesis. I couldn't stop myself. I tried."

"That's no excuse." But he closes his eyes, and he sees Nathan's face, choking, gasping softly, _Peter, stop, it hurts._ He sees Gabriel Gray, cupping his face like a brother and telling him that he wouldn't be able to control the hunger, that no-one could. That the ability came with endless desire and need. "That's no excuse," Peter repeats, but his hands are shaking and his voice is unsteady.

"I'm aware of that," Sylar says. "Some people - many people, I killed just because I felt like doing it. I just wanted you to know, I want to tell you everything. There should be no secrets between us, Peter."

"If you're looking for forgiveness, I'm the wrong fucking guy to give it." He hands the mug back to Sylar before getting up and storming off, tossing over his shoulder, "You want absolution, go find a priest."

Eventually Sylar writes them all down in a leather-bound notebook that he hands to Peter solemnly. Peter stares at it in revulsion, until Sylar just snaps, "Read it. Or don't. I just don't wish for us to continue having secrets with one another."

"I already know you're a monster," Peter says tiredly, but he keeps the journal, stores it in the bottom drawer of his dressing table. He can probably bear to read all the names, except for the one, and so he can't.

-

Things he likes to do when he's bored, which is often:

Make Sylar squirm, or weep, or feel guilty. Except this is just about exactly what Sylar wants, and it's just no fun when your victim is willing. He drinks instead, while Sylar sulks and eyes him suspiciously, and then he leans forward and mutters, "You are not half the man my brother was. Not half."

Sylar flinches and never replies, except for the one time, when he says, eyes glittering, "I killed him. I believe that in fact makes me better." Peter reels back and stumbles away, and Sylar catches his wrist immediately. "I'm sorry - I'm sorry. What do you want?" But he already knows what Peter wants. Just Nathan, telling him it will all be okay, that he loves him and has faith in him, always.

-

The first time it happens, they're a year in and Peter's pacing the floor of Sylar's workshop, trying to figure out a way, any way, to get them the fuck out of this. Sylar, on his part, continues to calmly put together the insides of the watch he's working on, and he ignores Peter until Peter snaps directly at him, "How can you just sit there and be so fucking calm. We're trapped here, in this hell, with no way out. What if we never get out."

Sylar puts his tools down slowly and blinks at Peter from behind his ridiculous glasses. "I've been here for three years longer than you, Peter. What do you want me to say, exactly. There is no escape. I have told you. Time and time again. You need to just accept it and move on."

"Fuck acceptance," Peter says, and slams his fist down on the worktable. Sylar doesn't even flinch.

Peter glares at him for a while, until he tires of it and then he lets his head fall onto the table, forehead pressed to the grain, breathes in the tinge of wood and oil and the barest hint of metal. He's only aware of Sylar again when the fingers press against his neck, warm and reassuring, and laying pressure on a particular spot that always - he snaps his head up and stares, wide-eyed, as Sylar pulls his hand away and looks faintly guilty. Peter's mouth is dry and anticipation and fear and familiarity curl up in a ball in his belly, and he exhales, once, twice, and then Sylar says, "Pete," and kisses him, soft and tentative, and Peter shivers, but he doesn't pull away.

-

He sits by the bed, sometimes, and watches Sylar sleep. When Sylar wakes up he asks, "Was he afraid?"

"Yes," Sylar says, and he doesn't break Peter's gaze. "Mostly he was afraid that he'd let all of you down. That he'd failed and I would destroy all that he loved."

Peter rubs his face wearily and says, "Okay. Go back to sleep."

_end._

**Author's Note:**

> "How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us." - Rilke, _Letters to a Young Poet_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Persistance of Memory (Dragon Slayer Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/86708) by [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill)




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